


Once He Is Gone

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4576317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is fine at Sherlock's funeral.  Of course he is.  Why wouldn't he be?  He's been to funerals for so many of his friends.  Why would Sherlock's be any different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once He Is Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [ Mid0nz's Mr. Blue Skull Fan Creations Contest](http://mid0nz.tumblr.com/post/122766273269/mid0nzs-mr-blue-skull-fan-creations-contest-the). Thanks for the inspiration, Mid0nz! I wasn't in the fandom until after season 3 so post-Reichenbach fic is new territory for me.

John is fine at Sherlock's funeral. Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be? He's been to funerals for so many of his friends. Why would Sherlock's be any different? It isn't even the first death that's John's fault. He can name a half-dozen close friends who died beneath his hands, blood seeping from vital organs ripped by shrapnel that was still warm to the touch. Sherlock is no different, although at least when his army mates died John knew he'd done all he could to save them. Sherlock . . . . Sherlock didn't give him that chance, did he?

John is fine at the funeral. Yes, he is. He rides home with Mrs. Hudson and holds the front door for her because she seems a little unsteady. She rests her hand on his arm and thanks him. Her fingers are cool, the skin thin and whispery like an old woman and he pats her hand, careful not to break her. She gives a little squeeze to his wrist, harder than he expects and then turns her back on him to head for her own door. John looks up the seventeen worn wooden steps yawning over his head and closes his eyes, puts one hand on the wall. When the room stills around him Mrs. Hudson has vanished into her flat. John turns away from the staircase, sinks into the chair in the hallway instead. The upholstery is harsh and the cushion poorly sprung and his leg still aches from standing at Sherlock's grave.

An appointment with Ella. It doesn't help. Why would it help? It never helps, never has. She wants him to talk but he needs not to talk, not to think, to push thoughts away and ignore them until they are gone. That's how he works, how he moves, how he lives. Being with Sherlock let him do that, made everything else disappear. Now. Ella presses, then stops and watches, waiting. John's nerves want to crawl out of his skin. Ella's office is sparse, natural and calm and overwhelming. Ella herself is a tangle of color and life, a body that breathes, jewelry that rattles over a bright pretty blouse of purple and pink and green and other shades he cannot name. He pushes the idea of her aside and looks out the window, but the rain is heavy and loud, scourging the ground without washing anything away. He retreats into his head and tries to turn off his memories until the session is over. Sherlock would have been able to do that. Sherlock never had to go to counseling. None of Sherlock's friends ever killed themselves while he watched.

There are no cabs in sight when John emerges from Ella's office into the grey wet afternoon, but a car is waiting for him. He'd told no one where he'd gone, had made the appointment himself, unprompted by well-wishers, knowing he needed to find a way to survive on his own. John sighs and climbs into the car, doesn't listen as Mycroft questions him, can't help hearing everything not said. He has never seen as much resemblance between Sherlock and his brother as he does now: the posh, precise speech and the immaculate tailoring and the violent, repressed sorrow. John nearly throws himself out of the car when it slows for a traffic light. He walks back to Baker Street in the rain.

The flat is too crowded, empty and silent. Every time his eyes settle long enough to see he is reminded of Sherlock. He can't stay here. He should look for another place to live, something cheaper and fresh. He thinks Mycroft may have talked about money but John only heard pain. He needs someplace smaller, new, just his. Everything here is tainted, even his own belongings were all touched by Sherlock, appropriated and abused. His laptop, his coffee mugs, his gun, his shaving cream and shampoo. He climbs the stairs to his bedroom, throws clothes into a bag, doesn't even try to pack up the rest of the flat. Half his socks have gone missing from his drawer. He zips the suitcase before it is full and leaves, shouting goodbye to Mrs. Hudson without opening her door. 

A hotel. Just for a few days. Or maybe Lestrade's sofa—no, he can't look Greg in the eye. They didn't speak at the funeral. Sherlock's funeral. John feared he would either punch him or collapse in his arms if he tried, so he kept his distance and didn't think about betrayal as the coffin was lowered and the flowers were laid. Greg is part of the reason Sherlock is gone. Greg helped spread the lies, the ones that Sherlock somehow expected John to believe at the end, even though they couldn't, they couldn't be . . . . A hotel, then. Just for a few days. 

The hotel stay lengthens when he learns they are willing to charge him by the week. It is too expensive, though he doesn't check his account and the money doesn't run out. He looks at flats, eight places, ten, all cream and tan and beige, no wallpaper in sight. No character. He hates them all, calls back the first one he saw and rents it. It's the farthest away and comes with furnishings enough that he doesn't need to return home. 

Mrs. Hudson leaves messages. When his phone's mailbox is full he deletes them all and goes to see her. She is not home. No one is home and John can still see Sherlock standing at the open window with a cigarette, can hear his voice and his violin and the drum of his fingers on the edge of the desk. John's blood thrums with anger and hatred and grief and regret. He wants to pull a suitcase from beneath Sherlock's bed and fill it with the rest of his possessions and maybe one or two remnants of the life they once shared. 

He barely even makes it into the flat. How could he? Standing in the doorway, John watches the dust swirl. He fails to see its eloquence, only how thickly it has built up in a matter of weeks, coating everything and darkening the air. That's enough to remind him. He will never forget. He looks to the empty coat hooks and then turns to leave, his body eager to help him escape. Some tattered scrap of bravery buried deep within makes him pause on the landing. He needs something, something tangible to prove he was here, and so was Sherlock, that they both were real and alive and true. He can't leave his whole life behind. He can't leave Sherlock. 

He cracks the door again, just enough to allow a step through, not enough to see the whole room. There. The blue painting on the wall, part of their background together: a skull. It's perfect, macabre and grotesque and familiar and sane. A little off-balance, a little faded but not dull. It had already been hanging next to the sofa when John moved in, but it must have belonged to Sherlock. He recalls seeing it leering over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder as she showed him around the flat, but she never would have chosen such a sinister piece herself. 

John takes two steps into the flat and puts his hand out, grazing the edge of the painting. It's solid and rough, the canvas thick and heavier than it looks. He lifts it from the wall, leaving a rectangle of grime visible on the textured wallpaper. Something in his torso clenches, not a muscle, but he imagines the painting is too heavy. He cannot carry into downstairs and into a cab. Cannot take it with him. There's a hole now, where the painting hung, an emptiness no one will see and he needs to cover it up before it can spread. He swallows and almost chokes and shoves the picture away, dropping it back into place, hoping the wire is lined up to catch on the hook because he can't linger to set it right. He can't stay a moment longer. He turns and flees the flat, pulling the door closed behind him, sending up one final cloud of dust that will settle slowly back into place once he is gone.


End file.
